The next morning Verrencia looked cleaner than it was. The rain had polished the marble streets and left the scent of iron and lilies drifting from the market stalls. Sofia kept her pace quick, clutching her camera bag as she crossed the square toward the Herald's secondary office near the port.
Fishing trawlers moved in the fog below, gray silhouettes. She'd come to interview dockworkers about the ministry's new project, but the air felt charged—like someone had drawn invisible lines around her.
"Miss Moretti?" A man in an orange vest jogged up, wiping his hands. "You the reporter?"
"Yes. You wanted to talk about the missing shipments?"
He hesitated, eyes darting toward the end of the pier. "Not here. Too many ears."
Sofia followed him between stacked containers until the roar of cranes swallowed their voices. He pulled a folded sheet from his pocket. "They say cargo's going missing every week. But no one wants to sign a statement. People vanish if they ask questions."
"Who's they?"
He hesitated again, glancing over her shoulder.
A sleek black car had stopped at the corner of the pier, engine idling. The worker's face drained of color. "Forget it," he muttered, backing away. "You didn't get this from me." He dropped the paper into her hand and hurried off.
Sofia opened it: a list of shipment codes, circled in red ink. Her pulse thudded.
A voice came from behind her. "You really should choose safer hobbies."
She spun around. The man from the gala stood near the containers, dressed this time in a simple charcoal coat, no mask—but shadowed by its memory. Even without it, anonymity clung to him; he was the kind of presence people didn't question.
"Do you follow every journalist you meet," she asked, "or only the ones who annoy you?"
"I follow potential casualties," he replied. "The project you're digging into belongs to people who answer to me."
"Then maybe I should interview you."
A faint smile touched his mouth. "You wouldn't like the answers."
"Try me."
Ramond took a step closer, and the space between them shifted. The city noise dulled; she became aware of the slow rhythm of his breathing, the way his gaze didn't waver. "You think truth is clean," he said. "It never is. It's bought, bartered, buried. Walk away from this story."
"Why do you care?"
"Because you remind me what it's like when someone still believes the world can be fixed."
She blinked. "That almost sounded kind."
"It wasn't."
For a moment they simply looked at each other, the fog coiling around them like a curtain. Then he turned, his coat catching the wind. "You have until tomorrow to drop it," he said over his shoulder. "After that, you're in the game whether you want to be or not."
He disappeared into the mist, leaving her with the echo of his words and the crumpled list in her hand.
Back at The Herald, the newsroom was alive with clattering keyboards and the smell of burnt coffee. Sofia dropped her damp coat over the back of her chair and spread the soggy list on her desk. The red-circled shipment codes bled slightly where the rain had caught them.
Marcus Veldt leaned out of his glass office. "You find anything that'll get me sued, Moretti?"
"Probably," she said without looking up.
He chuckled, stepped out, and perched on the edge of her desk. "That's my favorite kind of story."
She tapped the list. "Cargo's going missing. Workers are scared. Someone's laundering money through the port."
Marcus's humor dimmed. "And you think you can print that without names?"
"I'll get them."
He studied her for a moment, then lowered his voice. "Sofia, you know how this city works. There are layers we don't touch."
"I didn't get into journalism to keep quiet."
"That idealism of yours will kill me," he muttered, ruffling his hair. "Fine. Two days. Bring me something solid or we bury it."
When he left, Isabella swiveled her chair around, eyes bright with curiosity. "So," she whispered, "who's the tall, dangerous man who's suddenly everywhere you go?"
Sofia frowned. "What?"
"The guy in the coat. He was in the lobby earlier. I saw him talking to reception."
Sofia's pulse quickened. "Did he give a name?"
"No. Just looked around, then walked out."
Sofia forced a laugh. "Probably coincidence."
But she didn't believe it. That night, she reread the shipment codes again and again until the numbers blurred. Her apartment window looked over the river; the city lights shimmered on the surface like a coded message. Somewhere out there, he was watching, and she hated that part of her didn't mind.
---
On the opposite side of Verrencia, in an office built beneath a decommissioned theater, Ramond watched the same river through bullet-proof glass. The room was dim, the only light from the monitors lining the wall—each showing different corners of the city.
A man in a gray suit entered quietly. "You were seen at the docks," he said. "That's unlike you."
Ramond didn't look away from the screen. "She was asking questions in the wrong place."
"The reporter?"
"Yes."
His lieutenant, Adrian Vale, frowned. "You could have her stories buried."
"I could," Ramond said. "But I want to know how far she'll go when someone tells her not to."
Adrian hesitated. "You're testing her?"
Ramond's tone was flat. "I'm understanding her."
On one monitor, Sofia's apartment building appeared—tiny figure moving near the window, light haloing her hair. He zoomed in just long enough to confirm she was safe, then switched the feed off.
Adrian's gaze flicked to the dark screen. "You care."
"I don't."
"You do," Adrian said softly. "And that's what worries me."
Ramond turned at last, eyes cold again. "Worry about the port. Leave her to me."
---
The next morning, Sofia woke to a knock at her door. A package lay on the mat: black paper, no return address. Inside was a single object—an antique fountain pen, sleek and heavy, engraved with her initials. No note.
She set it on the table, uneasy. The pen gleamed like a promise, or a warning.